Burning Today Options

[Olen]

Some of you probably remember my last piece, Yesterday's Shadow and that it had a rather unsatisfying ending. I spent the summer rectifying this and now have a sizeable sequel/ completion to it which is itself now finished. It would probably be better to read Yesterday's Shadow before this as it would make more sense, however you should get by without it. If anyone wants I'll put a synopsis here, though Yesterday's Shadow isn't very long so you could just read it here (enough plugs yet?)

Anyway without further ado:

Burning Today

Prologue

Dervas wore boots while he worked. Shoes didn't last long in the decaying mixture of blood, vomit, drink and drugs which floored The Black Guar. The dark man had finally passed out and for the first time Dervas dared look at him. A worn man with a broken soul. Who are you? The Black Guar didn't get passing trade – the mixture of pushers, heavies and racketeers who made up most of his patronage didn't appreciate strangers. In the first hour the man, who now lay face down on the table, had knocked two out cold and broken another's arm. They left him alone after that and he them. Dervas wiped the remains of a line of sugar off the bar and nodded to the bouncer who went to move the man to his room.

Someone knocked at the door. Dervas ignored it. They knocked again, for longer this time. He cursed and went to tell whoever it was where to go. It was late an he didn't need any more trade. He pushed open the door, a curse dancing on his tongue. A sack crashed to the ground, gold clinked within. A Breton in black clothes stood in the doorway.

“What's his tab?” There was no need to ask whose.

“Sixty.”

The Breton showed no surprise, and counted out the gold. “Listen,” his tone offered pain if Dervas didn't, “You keep giving that guy drinks, drugs, whores, whatever he asks for okay? For him happy hour doesn't end, tabs never have to be paid. Push as much as you can into him. Don't worry - I'll be round a couple of nights a week to pay you. That sack,” he kicked disdainfully at the one he'd just dropped, “Contains a thousand drakes, payment enough I'd say. If he asks don't tell him, just give him more drink. Understand?”

Dervas nodded, his mouth was dry.

The man disappeared into the night.

Dervas walked back into the bar. He looked towards the dark man's room. Who are you? he thought again, And what have I gotten into?

[Olen]

20. News in the South

Outside the high sun beat mercilessly on the ground. I swore and kicked a stone across the street, it splashed into the turgid waters of the harbour. The useless lizard knew but wouldn't help. I cursed again and drew startled looks from passers by; I wasn't used to this sort of messy subtlety, point me at what needs bashing and I'm fine. I smiled wryly at the thought, didn't that just say something.

Briefly I entertained the idea of a quiet smoke somewhere secluded but decided to sit on the urges. To pass the monotony on the boat I'd had far too much and one of the vial was already finished. It was strong stuff too and although I had said I would leave that day in truth I didn't think it possible, I had nothing but the armour on my back, my sword and just under two vials of skooma. I needed food and, I thought, feeling the sticky sweat in my warmer northern clothes, something else to wear. It was fearsomely hot. First though I wanted another drink of, I took a moment to remember, rasde. That had been good stuff.

I made my way along the docks to the bustling market. It was an astonishing array of rough wooden stalls with brightly coloured awnings where merchants and pedallers sold almost everything I could imagine, and plenty I wouldn't have. A whole aisle of tightly packed stalls sold nothing but potions and elixirs and alchemical contrivances. Bizarre apparatus imported from Summerset Isle, odd jars of green stuff and dessicated fish insides from Argonia, fungi in every shape and colour from Cyrodiil, barks and roots from Valenwood, oil of vitriol and sal ammoniac from High Rock and condiments from Elswer vied with more mundane things like ashyams and racer plumes from Vvardenfell. Everywhere people bought, sold, bartered a thousand things I didn't recognise. Then I was out the far side of of the alchemical quarter and into one where I was more at home. Weapons. More weapons than I'd seen in my life, from light chitin axes to massive ebony maces - the value of which I wouldn't dare guess at - the panoply of armaments spread around me. I cursed my lack of gold for I had little doubt that if my perfect sword existed it was here. Even so I wandered around wide eyed drinking it in.

A dunmer approached me, "Would sir like to buy?" his voice was as greasy as his slicked back hair.

"Just looking," I replied.

"I see the sword is your weapon, I have blades of the finest steel from Hammerfell," somehow he had led me to his stall, a selection of blades lay on this white fabric. Their intricate tooling made them close to art but I didn't doubt they would be effective. "Or perhaps," the merchant continued, "You're looking for something special? Oh, I know a connoisseur when see one, and you sir, look like you know blades." With that he drew an elaborately sheathed sword from under the table, it had a gold coloured hilt and a light silvery blade, "An elven longsword, made by the ancient Ayleids of Cyrodiil and, I assure you, the best sword you've ever seen."

It was a beauty. It also made me shiver, it brought back memories too recent and fresh. I'd kept them out as best I could but the oddly golden material was too similar to the ruin. My mind hovered over images of the bodies and burned supplies... "No, no thanks," I managed somewhat breathlessly.

The dunmer looked confused but had the sense not to pursue it, "Well sir, if you do want a blade you know where to come. Say would you be interested in selling that blade, or perhaps your armour, I'm sure we can arrange a good price."

"No I'm quite happy," I said. I wanted to see more of the market and in honesty the sword I had was serviceable and the light armour was all I could bare in the heat.

"Even so you must see my brother's armoury, come," I allowed myself to be herded though a narrow gap between two stalls and into the next brightly coloured aisle. This one was dedicated to armour.

"Gleril," said a jolly voice, "Hows things, and who's this you've brought?"

"Ahnvas this," replied the salesman, "Is an aficionado of the finer things."

"Ah you want some armour sir? This is the place, no stall has better," he did indeed have an impressive display of armours in varied styles and materials.

"Really I'm just looking around,"

I didn't get any further, "Ah sir is from the north, Vvardenfell I'd say by your voice. I have a fine suit of chitin, or perhaps," he looked me up and down, "I think bonemold might be more your thing. Unless you prefer foreign armour. Certainly we have little enough ash here but plenty heat, perhaps Dres armour would better suit you. I can give you a good price on that leather suit. It's a curiosity, though I'm sure you know how little protection leather offers."

"Thank you," I managed once his tirade finished, "I shall bare it in mind, however, I've just arrived in town and would like to freshen up. Could you direct me to an inn?"

"Of course, just head that way," he pointed to the town centre, "There are plenty, just avoid the Old Stone Inn. Place has rats something awful I hear. And remember, if you need armour just ask for Gleril," he smiled, "I'll give you a good price for that piece, shall we start at two hundred?"

"Maybe later," I smiled back, "I shall bear you in mind."

"Well what's you name sir," he proffered a hand.

"Fir- Hassius." I shook the hand, "Now I must be going."

I set off through the market staring at all the wanders on sale. The silks and clothes and wines and spirits all tried to outshine the assorted curios and oddments. It was like nothing I'd ever seen before and, I had to admit, I rather liked it. But what I saw at the town square at the far edge of the market soured my good mood like vinegar in milk. The source of this panoply of wealth and pomp. By one high wall set slightly aside from the market was a row of cages, from within peered eyes, some wild, others haunted and some, the most chilling ones, simply broken. My hatred of the Dres steeled. They stared blankly without looking, the soul behind retreated to some other place.

The slaves were a mixed bag, mainly Argonians though there were a few Khajit and even a man who paced round the small cage in tight circles tapping one hand madly against the bars until the slave dealer threw a stone at him and shouted for him to shut up. My hand went to my sword but the square was full of guards and dunmer who relied on just this source of income. There was nothing I could do so I looked for a moment than passed by on the far side of the street. After Firewatch and after this I knew I would get Varnan out, soon, and by any means at my disposal.

***

The first inn I came to was the Old Stone which I had been warned about, but I had no money and I thought perhaps I might be able to get myself a free room. I went in. The salesman hadn't been joking, the place stank of rat leavings. It was gloomy, dirty and above all empty, and for once this wasn't exactly what I was looking for. Everything about the barman screamed slime, his unwashed smell overpowered, at least locally, the pervading stench of rot and faeces. He wore a filthy shirt and had greasy unwashed hair which hung around a face like a rotten apple. "Good day," I said as cheerily as I could.

"I doubt it," he replied.

"I hear you have a rat problem."

"Yes," I didn't think it was just the rats which kept business away.

"I can sort that problem, if you agree to give me a room, some food for a journey and some money. And some rasde." I added. A month before I wouldn't have been seen dead killing rats - leave that to the associates - but I had little choice.

He looked at me, "Fighter's Guild are you?"

"Yes.... I was anyway." I doubted I'd be working for them again.

"And from the north," it wasn't a question. Did I really have that much of an accent? It seemed so, "Yes, tell you what I'll give you two nights in my best room, a sack of saltrice and some jerky and fifty coins."

"The rasde?"

"Two bottles."

His generosity surprised me, I hadn't expected to get any gold. Perhaps he was really that desperate to have the rats gone. But then why not hire a local? I decided I didn't care, "Fine point me in the direction." I was shown to a cellar, the barkeep was suddenly more friendly, though in a clumsy way as if he was unused to the activity. I took a lantern and went in.

The reek was enormous, almost a physical force which knocked me back. I screwed up my face and went down the stairs. There were rats everywhere.

A few minutes later there weren't. There was a lot of blood which turned the hard packed earth floor into slippery mud. I too was plastered in it, they were big, and I had just given a first class example of why you kill rats with a blunt weapon - if you use a blade they squirt. A lot. There was a hole going down in the corner and almost a worse smell emerging from it, almost certainly the main nest, and source of the problem was down there, but I reckoned I'd killed enough to convince him and didn't really care if they came back in a few days so I cut the tails from the carcasses and stuffed them all down the hole before dragging a crate over the entrance.

When I re-emerged, covered in blood, into the main bar I had sixteen tails. I thumped them down next to a crust of dried vomit on the bar, "I'm done," I said, "Have you get a water butt? And some oil for the leather."

The barkeep looked at the tails, "Butt's out the back, oil's in the stable. There's a clean table and your rasde on it in the corner. I need to go out to... get the saltrice, yes, I don't have that much so I have to get it. Watch the bar," his dour tone evaporated into mother of mine's friendliness for the last bit. I wandered why, but not much. I wanted to wash.

I spent the remainder of the afternoon drinking and, intermittently, puffing at my pipe. The barkeep seemed too preoccupied to care. The bar was horribly warm and the heat seemed to rise all sorts of smells from the foul tables and squalid straw floor. I managed to swap some local clothes for my northern ones, which were apparently foreign enough to be of interest, if not value, which relieved me somewhat. But mainly I drank rasde, which wasn't as good as the stuff from The Westwater Club, from a cup which wasn't even slightly clean. I went to bed early.


The night was cloudless and the shutters broken so a pale light crept though the window screen and dimly illuminated my room. Once it might have been nice, but like the rest of the inn it had seen better days. A crooked chair sat at a scored table with a fine pottery bowl with what might, at some time in the distant past, have been an orange in it. It was now closer kin to the dessicated undead than to fruit. The room had a cupboard and bookshelf of temple texts, and even a garderobe, which was broken. It was the best room I'd been in for a long while, yet for some reason in spite of the deep, if lumpy, mattress I couldn't sleep. The soft blur of mild drunkenness had passed and still I lay awake looking at the whitewashed ceiling and listening to the sounds of the night.

Down stairs I heard the barkeep, who was yet to tell me his name, pacing. There was a strange one and no mistake. After a while I heard the creak of the door and the footsteps stopped. Silence from below, at last. I lay back and tried to relax into sleep. Then footsteps on the stairs, strange at this time of night, perhaps he had a delivery to wait for and was going to bed? But then why two sets of feet? A mother of mine? Certainly he wasn't married now if he had ever been, the state of the inn made that clear enough. Probably just a mother of mine, he was nervous someone might see though gods know why. I settled down to sleep.

My door burst open.